Days Of Roses and Autumn Leaves
by acidicturtledove
Summary: University!FrUk (Human AU) Arthur Kirkland was late. As much as he'd like to hope otherwise, his uniform structure only gets more mangled from then onwards. Where does he settle the blame? On a particular Frenchman. Well, to begin with...
1. Encounter

Chapter 1

_Encounter_

* * *

A pair of formal dress shoes clattered against the cobblestone streets, followed by the remainder of a rather hurriedly applied suit. The only word capable of describing Arthur Kirkland at that time would be a mess. His shirt was untucked, spilling out from underneath his sweater, his tie seemed to be gradually climbing down his neck with each step, and he was pretty sure his trousers were going down the same route despite the support from his belt. If there was one thing that he hated more than anything, it was being late. He was accustomed to structure, everything being planned out beforehand, not a big mess of flinging on whatever was in sight and hurrying out the door in hope of only arriving ten minutes beyond the designated time. He wasn't even sure himself how he had managed to oversleep. He had prepared for this day for weeks, months, even. The margin for error on his first day of university was so tiny that he wouldn't even consider it earlier. But there he was. A dishevelled mess, even despite all of his work to prevent that exact outcome. This was an embarrassment, no, a horrible distress, the most he could hope for was that nobody would comment…

Unfortunately, he received no such luck. After bursting through the double doors of the area in which they were supposed to gather, a large hall, to be more precise, he was met with mocking snorts from all angles. He could do nothing more than clench his fists and stare at the ground in response.

"Ah, you must be Mr Kirkland…" Called out a bespectacled man, looking down his nose at the rather flustered lad. "Finally decided to join us, have you?"

"I apologise, sir, I ran into something on the way here that delayed my arrival momentarily. It won't happen again." Well, he wasn't exactly lying, he had run into more than a few lampposts during his journey. Not that he would ever say it flat-out, of course.

"You had best hope not. It would be rather a shame if you were kicked out this early on, wouldn't it?" After popping that rhetorical question, the elder begrudgingly put a green tick besides the latecomer's name to signify that he was in. "Anyway, due to your tardiness, you failed to receive a precise sheet of lecture times. I will do you the kindness of providing you with one just this once, though do not expect me to be so lenient in the future." With that, he forked over a singular sheet, gave a curt nod, and positively stamped away.

After scanning the contents of the sheet, he folded it as small as it could get (he really just needed something to do to keep his mind off his sheer nervousness) and placed it into his upper breast pocket. It was only after recovering from the haunting effect of the unmistakeable threat that the blond recalled his current state. A rather lengthy series of curses escaped pallid lips as he set to the task of making himself roughly presentable, however, he couldn't help but feel as though he were being watched… His fingers fumbled on his tie as he turned to his right just in time to have his suspicions confirmed. There, on the other side of the room, sat a man positively surrounded by girls. It had only been thirty minutes since they were supposed to arrive, how could he had built up such a legion? This was the least of his worries. The strangest thing about this was that he wasn't looking at the females swarming for his attention, but at Arthur. Well, at least until the latter noticed that the student had lowered the hand that was previously concealing his laughter. Arthur immediately whipped his head to the other side, dirty bangs sweeping over his eyes.

Just as soon as he was wondering whether any familiar faces were dotted around, a hand suddenly made contact with his shoulder. At that point it would not be an overstatement to say that he leapt a foot into the air. "Dude, you guys know each other?"

At last, a voice he recognised.

The Brit turned to face the direction of the speech. It belonged to one of his old friends from sixth form, well, if you could use such a term. He was more than certain that the bubbly American had just been using him to pass tests, but nevertheless, he was thankful for the companionship.

"Pray tell, Jones, what gave you the thought that I would have made any sort of acquaintance? Wasn't it you who would always say how incapable I was of accomplishing such a feat?" He retorted, a poisonously sarcastic air laced throughout each syllable. It wasn't that he was truly angry, more that he was uncertain whether he could deal with the inevitable dose of stupidity, especially after skipping his morning cup of tea.

"You seriously gotta stop calling me by my last name, man. It's like you're talking to your Dad or something… And I was only asking 'cause he seems pretty interested."

Now _this _the Brit took to heart. A glance to the peripheral of his vision, however, told a very different story.

The older chap seemed to have transfixed his attention onto the ever-growing mob, though there was something about his disposition that seemed a little…off. Did he want to get away? _Well, serves the bugger right._ Thought Arthur with a hardly restrained smirk. _Who on earth bothers to go to school in designer clothing? Really, he looks like a teenage girl. _Shoving such thoughts out of his head upon realising the amount of consideration he had put into such an analysis (after all, such a chap should be underneath somebody of his stature), he was brought out of his daze-like fixture.

"Hellooooo? Anyone in there?" A set of fingers were snapped directly in front of Arthur's view. "You totally look like a zombie, man." As if having reached some kind of utterly astonishing conclusion, the American's jaw dropped. "Bro, wouldn't it be cool if the place was overrun with the living dead? Hey, Keeks, dude, isn't that what one of your weird back-to-front comics is about?"

That name sounded all too familiar as well…

Occupying a seat a fair distance back from where the scene was taking place sat a smaller man with dark hair, currently hunched over one of said 'weird back-to-front comics'.

"Alfred-san, it would be very much appreciated if you would called them "manga"…" Kiku's tone was quiet, almost as though he was trying to go completely unnoticed in the hall teeming with students. Arthur couldn't exactly blame him if that were indeed the case, he felt quite the same way.

"Dude, there's no way I can remember that, that's like five letters!"

"A-ah… Alright then. Excuse me." He gave a bow of his head before returning to his manga, dusky eyes firmly glued onto the print.

Well, at least there was _one_ other sane person within the place. It didn't quite matter that Arthur didn't know him as well as he would have hoped, that fact alone managed to at least numb any previous worry. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad… Well, at least if he didn't have any future encounters with that rather strange chap across the hall, _still _surrounded by females who looked as though they were willing to physically drag him off to gain his attention. Arthur didn't quite know what being noticed by him meant, but judging by his mocking demeanour, it couldn't have been anything good.

Cutting his train of thought (and simultaneously succeeding in almost rupturing his eardrums), the bell rang, a hideous, obnoxious sound that echoed off the walls of the hall like a bullet.

"Oh, by the way, they also gave us planners and stuff, but I guess you weren't here for that… If you look on the floor, I guess you'll find one. See ya!" Called Alfred, waving as he made for the door alongside the Ginormous Sea of students.

_What a charming idea…_ A grimace rose onto his face. _Trust that American to think of the most demeaning way possible to procure a simple planner. _Unfortunately for him, Arthur didn't quite notice when his search took him to the opposite side of the hall, let alone the figure standing directly behind him as he reached to pick up a rather damaged but still acceptable planner.

"Bonjour!" Came a voice, cheery to a point that was beyond disgusting for the gentleman in front.

"What exactly do you want?" Pale fingers curling around the planner rather possessively, he directed a scalding glare toward the presumed Frenchman. Unluckily, he didn't seem to be phased in the slightest.

"Seeing as though I had my eyes set on that very book since it was first dropped, it would be appropriate for me to ask you to hand it over, oui?" He seemed to be exercising the power of persuasion, using a tremendous amount of energy to come across as reasonable and likeable as possible. For Arthur, however, it just increased the number of reasons he already had to fulfil the irrational yet immediate need to punch the odd fellow.

"If I may apply a rather childish turn of phrase: finders keepers, losers weepers." Even he winced internally at the horrible grammar. "Besides, don't you have a battalion of fans that you can call upon to provide you with one?"

"You wouldn't want me to inconvenience _les jeunes dames,_ would you?" An unnecessary amount of emphasis was applied to his mother tongue. He could obviously tell that this usage was beginning to aggravate the opposition, and for that precise reason pressed on.

"Speaking French does not provide you with any sort of coherent argument, nor does it snag you a victory. If you'll excuse me, some of us actually care about being late."

"And you think that I do not? Cher, you insult me." A comical pout played across his features before it was swiftly exchanged for a wily smirk. Rather unexpectedly, he too reached for the planner, grip surprisingly fierce.

"Were you not listening, frog? Remove yourself this instant!" He had started to falter at this point; physically, he had never been the best at holding his own, a fact that was made all too apparent to his competitor judging by his never-fading amusement.

"Ah, but that would be no fun at all… You rosbifs like to express your superiority, oui? Then you should have no problem with proving it~!"

Lord, as if he hadn't wanted to punch the Frenchman already… "If you have some kind of score to settle, I'd be more than happy to settle it in some form that does _not _endanger my reputation!" He practically hissed. He could only imagine what the consequences would be if the man from earlier walked in.

"But this way is much more fun, don't you think? Besides, don't your people prefer to 'strike while the iron is hot', as they say? Now would be your perfect chance, although if I am the iron, there is no chance of it not being hot." He chuckled at the horrified expression of the Englishman, _merde, this was almost too fun._

"If you were as successful at academics as you are at making sleazy remarks, lord knows what you could accomplish." His speech was fitted with a terribly snarky tone, closer to a sneer than to a remark.

"Oh? You make such assumptions at a first meeting? Well, I am glad you clearly think that highly of me, rosbif."

"Don't flatter yourself. It's glaringly obvious that you have the intellect of a toddler. Take your clothes, for example; it's more than obvious that you're compensating for something."

"You would make such an effort to look me over?" He engaged in a round of what could only be described as 'honning', head thrown back to release a laugh occasionally punctuated by a plethora of snorts. "I was not aware that you wanted to join the beautiful moi's fan club~!"

"As if I would stoop to feed your already swollen narcissism." Using this argument as a means for distraction, Arthur would give one final tug for good measure, even unsure himself why exactly he had risked this amount of time for the sake of keeping it going.

This was perfect. Oh too perfect. Just as Francis opened his mouth to make a comment about something else being swollen, the planner was almost wrenched from his grasp, giving him little time to utter a word, let alone yell a warning before the entire thing was torn in two.

Papers flew everywhere, like dismal confetti to celebrate just how done for they were. Of course, it didn't help the situation when the precise teacher who had taken register walked in at that moment to discover what was behind the racket.

"Kirkland! Bonnefoy! What is the meaning of this?" He stormed toward the two as fast as his stout little legs could carry him, face resembling a beetroot from sheer anger. Though he clearly had to crane his neck to meet their eyes, nevertheless, he attempted to maintain as much dignity as possible. It was hard not to laugh at this almost childish display.

"I apologise, sir. In hindsight, I suppose it was rather an immature squabble." As the gentleman, Arthur only thought it fitting to be the one to step forward. Of course, even whilst putting on this humble disposition, he couldn't help but glower at Francis' amused expression from the corner of his eye.

"You better believe it was. I'll be seeing you both in my office at lunch. Don't even think of eating beforehand. Also, clean up this sodding mess! Next time you decide to throw everything about, think of the ruddy janitor!"

"Oui oui, monsieur!" The Frenchman raised the wrong hand into a faux-salute, not seeming to care at all when he was shot a glare that Arthur was more than certain had the power to bore holes in steel. He almost wanted to root for the teacher at this point, however, his hopes of seeing his newfound enemy put in his place were quickly dashed; the man had retreated with little more to be said.

"What a bore… Give me a hand, oui? That is, if you are not too busy staring off into space. I cannot think you have anything interesting to think about, unless you have a thing for that unstylish toadstool." He gave a visible shudder before attempting to call forth images of a more fashionable nature to drown out the man's dreary uniform. Like himself. Yes, that would work.

"…Bloody git." Meanwhile, the Brit had reluctantly begun to pick up the scraps of paper, more than a tad irked at the fact he was here instead of attending a normal lecture along with the others. Just why did he have to clean up when it was that frog's fault to begin with?

"Ah? You English have such strange sayings." Oddly enough, he seemed perfectly content with brushing it off as nothing.

_Did that frog truly think so little of him?_

"Alright, what exactly are you trying to do? One minute you act like the conniving French bastard you are, the next you attempt to get 'matey' with the one you were previously fighting. Is there any particular reason behind this, or is your mind simply too shallow to comprehend what exactly doesn't fit?"

"Non non, rosbif, it is you who is confused. Hm… Well, think of me as a scientist." Smirking at the roll of his eyes the blond responded with, he continued. "If a scientist comes across a specimen that exceeds _la prévision, _he is granted permission to examine it, non? Would it be so wrong for him to be…intrigued?"

"…Where do you intend to go with this?" Tone devoid of any sort of amusement, Arthur provided a withering stare as he got to his feet, rather unnerved at the amount of space that had been closed between them.

"What I'm saying is, cher, that even though some may disagree with his motives, a mutual agreement can be met that will allow him to do… _sans precedent _things with the specimen… A marvellous comparison, is it not?" At this point, he had reached a location where his words sent a light gust of warm breath past Arthur ear. Whether he was blushing or red with anger, it didn't quite matter, as before a comment could be made, a vicious uppercut was sent into his stomach. Air completely knocked out of the older blond, he couldn't make a remark even if he tried.

"Ah… Arthur-san…" A quiet voice called from the doorway, belonging to none other than Kiku. But why was he not in a lecture? And more importantly, why was there a member of Francis' 'fan club' skipping in the hallway behind him?

"Kiss kiss fall in love~!" She chanted, oblivious to the confused stares directed toward her until Arthur cleared his throat nervously. Just what was going on? "Oh? Hey you two! We were sent to get you, yep yep!" She nodded her head furiously, causing her short, light hair to flip to each and every angle.

"Is that right? Well, I assure you that we'll head over shortly. No cause for concern." He took this opportunity to get as far away from Francis as possible whilst carrying the last few scraps over to the nearest bin.

"Alright! Be there soon, okay? There's this guy, Mr Beilschmidt, I think? He's crazy young, but he's the sub... Anyway, he's really cranky… He made this one guy drop and give him twenty just for arriving a minute late, talk about inventive learning methods…" She burst into a smile upon running her eyes over the horrified expressions the two 'enemies' shared. "Later!" With that, the young woman spun on her heel, virtually dragging poor Kiku with her, and leaving Arthur and Francis alone in the same room again.

The duo's eyes scanned over their counterparts, a battle of sharp, threatening green against the calm cerulean of the Frenchman. With little more to be said and done, the two exited via doors purposefully on opposite sides of the hall. After the footsteps that ricocheted off the polished wood came the click of the doors, and then…

_An eerie silence returned._

* * *

**Thank you for reading the first instalment! ^w^ More's going to come, and fast (well, as soon as I get used to uploading system), so don't fret!**

**Oh, and as a bonus, that rather odd fangirl was supposed to be a cameo appearance of Fem!America. I probably won't include her in the tags because it was such a tiny spotlight. uvu''**


	2. Noontide

Chapter 2

_Noontide_

* * *

Arthur trudged down the spacious hallway, absolutely teeming with students talking, stressing over tests, etcetera. Everyone seemed to have a place to reside, be it discussing how their lectures went with friends, or brooding. He curled his lip in frustration. Most seemed to have had a fairly productive day, whereas he had simply managed to waste valuable time arguing with a frog, most likely making enemies out of a horde of adolescent girls in the process (depending on whether or not he went crying back to his 'admirers'), _and_ landing himself a meeting with a man it would not be so cruel to call a boar and a rhinoceros' love child.

The journey to his destination had been rather straightforward, well, it was hard to miss the door when it was surrounded with females who were almost pressing their faces up against the glass frame. The piercing glares directed upon his person as he made his way through the crowd at least served the purpose of deciphering where he currently stood, as well as providing him with the information that he would already have company. Hushed voices and careful points shot through the air like a fast-spreading gas, quickly infecting the atmosphere with unmistakeable malice. He turned his nose up at such gestures. After all, why should _he_ care? Once those girls had settled their rushing hormones, they would soon realise what a mistake idolising that wine-sucking bastard was and scarper.

"Mr Kirkland. You're late. This seems to be becoming rather a habit for you."

Those obnoxiously self-righteous words and an even more obnoxious smirk from Francis were what Arthur was greeted with upon his arrival. He had almost forgotten that one of the downfalls of turning up late to a bollocking in order to prove a point was that the opposition had more than enough time to spout whatever lies he wanted and call it 'his report'. That was probably why the damn frog looked so smug.

"Now then, I'd just like to run a few things by you, then you two may be on your merry way. First of all: Mr Bonnefoy claims that the cause for the squabble was him alone, is this correct?"

_He couldn't have heard that right. Had he crossed over into an alternate universe of some sort?_

"The clock is ticking, Kirkland."

"Ah, well, in theory–"

"A yes or no answer would suffice, I have no interest on senseless babbling."

Biting back a remark, he complied, response utterly oozing with the sense of a grudge. "No, sir, as much as I despise myself for saying so, I played an equal part. If it weren't for my childish response, we would not be here." Lord, he sounded sickening. He knew that saying what the man wanted to hear was probably the best way to avoid being kicked out, though he had his doubts if this would be wise. Going back to the Frenchman's actions when they had been alone in the hall, it would be all too easy to have any action he took twisted to reveal some kind of hidden meaning used to fluff up that wanker's ego.

"Alright, I trust you have learnt your lesson. Begone, you two; you are dismissed."

He was more than glad to leave the room, graciously inhaling the ancient, wooden smell of the corridor as an alternative to the terrible dose of body odour crudely masked with disinfectant that he had previously been subjected to. The first thing he noticed was the barren space in front of him: completely abandoned by the former crowd. Come to think of it, there was a staggering loss of people in sight, and even then they were old enough to look like they simply stumbled into the wrong place. There was probably some sort of induction lecture going on, though he didn't want to waste the remaining ten minutes of his break stuck in that sweaty hall. It was just a risk he'd have to take.

Finally, now began the precious time he could spend alone without interruption… Or so he thought, until he recalled the fact that he was now placed in an almost bare hallway with a particular Frenchman directly behind him (not to mention he had now temporarily had one of his meagre sources of entertainment taken away: his fangirls). Well, at least he could use this chance to settle the score. "Don't even bother to ask what possessed me to defend you. I may hate your guts, but I assure you, maintaining my reputation as a Gentleman is far more important."

"You say that, cher, though the choice of words you used were not very Gentlemanly. If you had really cared about that, you would have taken blame without making it sound like such a hardship, oui?"

_Damn. He had him there._

"I don't recall mentioning that the rules of conduct applied to lecherous frogs." A single 'caterpillar brow' twitched in irritation.

"Je supposer you have a point, although, if I am as _lubrique_ as you say, surely I deserve some points for my self-restraint?"

"_Self-restraint?_" He scoffed. "As if your actions in that hall were even _close _to exhibiting anything of the sort."

"I could say the same for yours… You still haven't kissed it better."

"Please. The day I even _think _about fulfilling such a repulsive desire will be when hell freezes over."

"D'accord, I shall keep that in mind, lapin!" Of course, Francis was fairly certain that if he utilised his charm, that day would come sooner than the blond thought. When all's said and done, Arthur really was the only one in the place worth looking at, and what would be the point in letting him slip through his fingers?

"Glad to hear it, now sod off, if you'd please; I doubt that somebody like you has nothing better to do." He turned upon his heel and marched to the fire exit around the back of the building, sparing not a glance over his shoulder. Francis took this as an invitation, surprisingly, and followed with a spring to his step, not a care in the world.

_This would be so much fun! _Arthur was so cute when he was angry, and right now he looked absolutely livid. Perhaps risking his place in the university this early on would lead to something good after all!

"I can tell you're following me, frog, so give up the sodding act. I've known Americans who have a better concept of stealth." Arthur practically growled as he flung the exit door open, advancing toward the metal rail to provide himself with an area to lean upon.

"You know, that is quite a bit more than crossing the line…" He retorted wearily, eyes trained with moderate interest upon the Englishman as he rummaged inside his pocket. To Francis' surprise, he produced a cigarette and lighter, furiously jamming the latter to no avail. Not even a spark would form.

"It was not my intention to present a pleasant counter-argument." Giving up on the lighter, he begrudgingly placed it back into its designated dwelling. He could faintly taste tobacco on the paper, and since there was no other alternative, he would have to make do with that.

"What is this? Mr Gentleman smokes?" Francis raised a hand to cover a smirk, just the same way he had done when the Brit first laid eyes upon him. "Really, and I thought you rosbifs were prim and no fun… Aha!" Hand diving into his brightly-coloured blazer's pocket, he produced a lighter of his own. Arthur scoffed at the way it shone. Trust that frog to find a way to show off even through a bad habit. "You may borrow mine, since you are such a helpless little thing." Ah, there it was again, that scowl. So adorable. The Brit all but snatched the contraption, sparking a flame underneath his cig, then making sure to toss it back over his shoulder as soon as possible. He wouldn't look behind for the world, but he could assume that the frog had barely caught it after a sequence of bumbling about. The sheer image of how ridiculous he would have looked brought a quirk to Arthur's lip.

"I have no need for your sympathy. I don't know what you must think of me to assume otherwise, but I am more than capable of fending for myself." He exhaled, letting a billow of grey smoke escape his lips to mingle in the air.

"You looked like you could use it, mon ami. The world can be rough for the unstylish, non?"

"You don't know the half of it." He muttered, dismissing the remark. He would rather be unstylish than as obnoxious as that frog.

"Oui, and I most likely never well." He took in a gust of air, proudly sticking his chest out before taking up the place directly next to the rather irate blond. "You know, you really should let me take care of those eyebrows…"

The Englishman spluttered, coughing slightly before exclaiming, "What the bloody hell to _they_ have to do with anything?"

"They have everything to do with anything, cher, they are unbearable forces of ugliness…"

"Well, if you wish I could simply remove your eyeballs to neutralise their hideous effect."

"It is nice that you would want to touch me, lapin, but I am not sure I was thinking in that way…" A silence stretched out between them, disrupted only by the raucous bell succeeding in all but utterly annihilating their eardrums. Arthur stamped out the small flame of his cigarette into the damp steel underfoot irritably. There went his break.

* * *

***Cringing noises* Yeeess I know giving Arthur the generic habit of smoking is kind of overused, but I thought it would be a cute little thing for them to bond over. ;w; Also, the chapters get a bit lighter from here, in case you haven't already noticed. Thankfully, I'll save the bibles until later.**


	3. Crumpled papers

Chapter 3

_Crumpled papers _

* * *

Later that day, Arthur had found himself stuck in a lecture regarding the poetry of Edgar Allan Poe, well, if you could even call it a lecture. It was more like sitting still for an hour waiting for the non-stop argument between Alfred and the teacher to finally finish (though that seemed rather unlikely, as his demands that the colour of a particular object meant nothing aside from 'the frickin' colour, brah' failed to make any sort of impact), and praying to whatever god was out there that the Frenchman behind him didn't try to pull anything.

The seconds marked by. _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. _Twenty minutes remained. Oh, make that nineteen. Just as soon as he was beginning to believe (rather half-heartedly) that the lecture would pass without even a glance sent his way, a small, creased ball of paper grazed the cropped mess of his hair. As if he even needed to guess who the offender was. It hit the floor with a light crinkling sound; not loud enough to draw the attention of another student, but apparently enough to warrant a scathing glare from the teacher in front. His hand holding the chalk hovered, as if the faint noise was so utterly offensive that he couldn't find the means to write. His beady eyes switched from Arthur, to Francis, then, (the most livid stare of all) the paper. He reluctantly turned away after that, resuming his dull speech in a tone that sounded strained, the sort of voice a hostage being held at gunpoint would assume. He probably wanted to go home more than the entirety of the class.

Without really thinking, Arthur stooped down to clutch the ball, unwrapping it under his desk with the languid speed of a child who had been granted the most disappointingly small present under the tree come Christmas morn. An onslaught of flowing cursive marinated the page. He scoffed. How terribly French.

_Meet me by the fire exit? That is, unless you actually enjoy being stuck in a stuffy room surrounded by sweaty teens. _

_Bonnefoy X_

Arthur rolled his eyes and scribbled a reply within the corner of the page, his messy scrawl barely legible. But, if the Frenchman had a thing for writing in words too flamboyantly presented to make any sense, he more than deserved it.

_I wouldn't be surprised if you do. If the teacher weren't in here you would probably lunge at the first thing with a pulse._

_Furthermore, what makes you think I'll follow you, anyway? Being in here may be vile and one of the more unpleasant ways to spend my time, but it's easily rivalled by the thought of your presence. _

Smothering the sheet with his fist, he threw the freshly-crumped ball back over his shoulder, allowing himself a smirk upon hearing a sharp whisper of _merde. _If being a gentleman meant he couldn't wish with every fibre of his being that Francis had been hit between the eyes, then he may as well have the title torn away from him there and then. A more considerate throw from the Frenchman this time; it landed upon the desk space in-between his hands.

_Since that would technically be you, it would be best to assume otherwise, non? And trust me. It is the most social activity that you will be getting, judging by your stuffy attitude. You would be __très mignon__ if you were always this silent, cher. _

This cycle continued, the two throwing the piece of paper back and forth, exchanging insults directly under the nose of the now incredibly agitated teacher (well, not especially _directly, _since they were both positioned near the back of the room) until, finally, the bell rang. Taking it as an immediate signal to grab the Brit and dash, Francis did exactly that, sparing not a second to pause as the former fumbled around with his briefcase. Who brought a briefcase to university, anyway? Well, obviously the same person who proved himself to be incapable of getting dressed in the morning, let alone arrive on time for his first day.

"For the love of Christ, what do you think you're doing?!" Staring in dismay as a pencil fell out of his bag and was abandoned upon the polished linoleum floor, he continued to defy every movement Francis made.

"Honestly, is the memory of the English really as bad as that? I have something to show you, _se rappeler?"_

"If you're expecting me to understand that gibberish you call a language, you're mistaken. No part of those blasted notes mentioned that you would be half-dragging me to the bloody destination!"

"Aaah, but you forget, if I let you go then I am endangering my beautiful ribcage's safety."

"You needn't fret, if all goes accordingly then you'll have a charming companion for the indubitable bruise you'll have already acquired from earlier. Good luck covering that up with makeup, prat."

"You are just jealous that my complexion is miles better than your putrid mess. Honestly, I could not attempt to neglect my skin in such a way even if I tried!" Turning a corner through the double-doors, he cut off whatever reply was to be used against him (probably even more scathing than the last, judging by the onslaught of verbal murder he had been subjected to throughout the duration of the day), and called out to two others who were already positioned by the exit. "Gilbert! Toni!" He waved, holding up the arm that had been gripping Arthur's own as if to show him off. Which, come to think of it, was probably exactly what he was doing.

"Yo, Franny, what's with the baggage?" The younger-looking of the two, perhaps a few years less than Arthur himself, retorted. He was wearing a shirt that screamed delinquent, a black short-sleeved with the word _Awesome_ splattered across it in green neon text. His jeans were skinny to an almost painful-looking degree, ripped in too many places to keep track of.

"I _would _like to think you're aware that I have a name of my own, though I can't say I'm expecting much." He had given up trying to break free of the Frenchman's hold, and had instead resorted to assaulting his companions with a lethal dose of sarcasm. Perhaps then he would avoid dragging him to the blasted group ever again.

"…Hah?" As an alternative to the argument the Briton had sought, he was presented with a confused tilt of the head.

"Oh, do not mind Arthur, he is probably just upset that he has not had tea in seven hours, since he is determined to be a stereotype." Francis waved him off.

"Laaame. Hey, stingy prude-face! You should try being more awesome! Like me!"

"Say, what exactly was the purpose of hauling me over to this band of oddities in the first place? Surely you have already exhausted your admittedly large capacity for posturing?" Quick as a flash, he turned on the Frenchman instead. He wanted to get kicked out as soon as possible so that he could locate his lodgings and (even though it was rather infuriating that this thought process only enforced Francis' belief that he was a stereotype), finally have a cup of tea to soothe his nerves.

"Ah, oui, I have a proposition to make, cher."

"…Yes?" He was uncertain. Thankfully, his arm had now been released, meaning he could storm away if need be.

"You do not have any friends, is that right?"

"W-well…" Well what? He had two supposed acquaintances: Alfred and Kiku, but could he necessarily call them friends? They could tolerate his presence, he supposed.

"If it is taking you this long to answer, I would guess I am right? In this case, I shall grant you an offer that would burst the hearts of every _belle _in the very world itself!" He flourished dramatically to the group. They could probably tell where this was going. One looked rather downfallen, Gilbert, supposedly, and the one who hadn't talked for the duration due to being too occupied with a tomato, Toni, seemed to be biding his time to say something. "We, out of the kindness in our magnificent hearts, will sweep you under the glorieux wings of stylishness!" He spun upon his heel, afterwards throwing his arms wide to gesture welcome. Was it just Arthur, or did it look as though he had practised this?

Funnily enough, Gilbert with the first one to object. "Dude, this guy is like, a total loser! What's the deal, Franny?"

"On top of that, your sales pitch was more of an affirmation than an offer. Are you sure you're aware of the difference?"

"That's another thing! He's way too serious! Even my baby brother is more awesome!"

Francis sighed. He knew there would be some opposition, but this was just ridiculous.

"Mi amigos?" At that point, everyone's heads turned toward the Spaniard. They had almost forgotten he was there. "You should all take a siesta, si? Ay… Everybody is too loud…"

"Oui, you are right, Toni…"

"Yeah, whatever."

"Well. I wish I could say it was nice talking to you lot, but I'm afraid I would be lying. Good day." To avoid any more of a delay, Arthur turned away from the whole ordeal, the sheer obnoxious flamboyance of it all, and stormed away.

"Hold on, cher!" Despite calling out, he didn't chase after the Brit. If he were at all likely to change his mind, he would have returned there and then, but no such luck. The most charismatic male in the school was left standing there, arm outstretched, and feeling nothing short of a fool.

* * *

**Ack, my feelings... Yeah, I was thinking of putting the BTT in here, but there was no way I intended for it to go like this. This is pretty much the extent of their appearance, so I apologise to their fans! **


	4. Acquaintances

Chapter 4

"_Acquaintances" _

* * *

Raindrops tarnished the tarmac, dirty water prying its way into whatever cracks were available. Once again, Arthur Kirkland was late. He was supposed to have arrived at the dorm ten minutes ago. If it weren't for that encounter he would have reached room 103 ages ago, but now, for the third time that day, he had to deal with the sheer embarrassment of tardiness. The third time in his life, and most likely not his last, either.

He had little information about who he was to be sharing the place with, one of his mother's mysterious 'friends of a friend' apparently had a son around his age who quite fancied the idea of a roommate. It was too big of a coincidence in Arthur's opinion, but he was in no position to question it. Most of the other people he had been through to secure himself a room found his personality…disagreeable. He glanced at the metal plate attached to the building he was now outside. It looked fairly familiar, so he assumed this was the place his mother had insisted on sending him a photograph of, since his poor sense of direction was more than notorious. He entered, heaving the glass-panelled door just enough for him to slip through. Everything was simple, a mixture of white and grey. The only source of illumination was a flickering bulb overhead, repeatedly smacked into by moths.

Arthur peered to his left to scan a large, metallic plate until he finally reached what he was searching for: the line reading _Rooms 92-105 – third floor _in block capitals. Now all that stood between him and a well-deserved rest were an out-of-order lift and a mountainous set of stairs that took him slightly over five minutes to scale. He knew that it probably wouldn't be the best of first impressions to arrive at the door doubled over and panting from a simple flight of steps, but before he knew it, he had already knocked at the cheap, flimsy door, and was now awaiting his judgement.

And then he knocked again.

Silence.

Just as he was about to begin calling out every curse under the sun, a familiar timid voice spoke up behind him.

"Ah… Arthur-san…"

"Oh, Kiku…" He turned to face the smaller man. "Say, do you live in this block also?"

"Hai. I take it your roommate is running late?"

"Oh, no. I find standing in the middle of corridors sodden wet therapeutic." He attempted a grim smile. The other endeavoured to mimic it, though with a considerable amount of awkwardness about it.

"Well… You might be at it for a while. I have overheard that the owner is still preparing the place, but you are more than welcome to wait in mine and Alfred-san's living room…" Each sentence was spoken in an uneasy tone, as though he felt his words to be offensive in some shape or form.

"May I? Sorry to cause an inconvenience."

"Is it not English tradition to be hospitable to your neighbour? I am sure that I read that in a textbook the other day." He guided Arthur to the door directly across the hall from his own (or what _would _be once his roommate finally decided to show up), and opened it to reveal a familiar American sprawled across the sofa and guzzling ice cream in a similar fashion to a man whose life depended on it. It seems only one glance informed him of what was going on.

"Dude, is this like, the crappiest day for you or what?" He paused the TV, previously showing Buffy the Vampire Slayer, simply for the sake of laughing at him.

"As charming as listening to you snorting for a good ten minutes must be for yourself, I for one fail to see the joy in it." Arthur unceremoniously flopped down into the most neglected-looking chair in sight.

"My pad, my rules, man; sucks for you, don't it? Hey, Keeks, why'd you let him in anyway?"

The Japanese man murmured something incoherent about respect and family honour before excusing himself to the other room as soon as possible. He could probably sense the oncoming storm.

"So, whilst we're on the subject of 'your pad', how exactly did you get a place here to begin with? I had always assumed that to attend University one must be in possession of a brain. The last time we spoke in sixth form you couldn't tell the difference between multiplication and division."

"So what, man? Numbers are boring as hell, like, what do they even do?" The bubbly American quirked his brow before returning to his show, signifying they take a breather from the conversation. Or, in this case, they take an hour and a half out in which Arthur paid witness to a plethora of frankly irritating accents and, in his eyes, a legendary amount of inaccuracies. The only way he was drawn out of his age-long speech regarding the true capabilities of demons was when Kiku came in to mention that he heard somebody unlock the door across the corridor.

The clock now read 7:30 pm, and if he didn't get his cup of tea soon he would most likely go insane (unfortunately, they only had coffee here, which Arthur had declined on the unspoken grounds that he considered the stuff to be poison).

So, he sprung to his feet, made an incredibly curt farewell (he would have to apologise for that later), and rapped upon the door.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

His impatience was getting the better of him. Every ten seconds felt a hundred times longer, and he was just about fit to collapse. After what seemed like an age, he finally heard a faint, resigned voice advancing toward the other side of the door.

"You know, there is this quality called patience, and nobody seems to possess it here on this wet little island…" The lock clicked open. For a second, Arthur thought the voice sounded somewhat…French. No. He'd had a long day, and was simply imagining things. Yes.

Including the appearance of that damned pervert from before.

And the fact that he seemed to be just as surprised as Arthur was.

By now he had reached two conclusions. The first was that every aspect of reality decided to do him up the arse there and then for a laugh; the second was that he had died from hypothermia outside in the rain and what he was going through were his last few moments of brain activity manifested into his worst nightmare. The latter seemed most pleasant.

Unsurprisingly, Francis was the first one to break the stunned silence. "So you have decided to change your mind? That is very sweet of you, but how exactly did you get my address…?" Lord, the frog probably thought he was one of those stalker types, didn't he? He had to redeem this situation. And quickly.

"You wish," He scoffed, "Unfortunately for both parties, I'm here for the vacancy." He dug inside his breast pocket, producing a note with the address. "Now, you have ten seconds to either tell me this is a joke, or that I have entirely the wrong room and have crossed over into hell itself."

"Non… Not at all. I am just as confused as you are…" Had Francis heard that correctly? He was to be spending the foreseeable future living beside the one he had taken it upon himself to woo? Just like that? His lip quirked upward ever so slightly.

"As if. You probably orchestrated this, didn't you? I'm not so gullible as to believe it was a coincidence."

"You do not trust me? Cher, my heart bleeds!" He swept the back of his hand across his forehead in a dramatic flourish.

"Are you even _trying _to take this seriously? Next thing I know your band of idiots will leap out from under the stairs and officially proclaim this to be the biggest cock-up of the century!"

"You do not have to be so uptight about it… It is just for the time being, oui?" Well, they'd probably be stuck with this predicament until either one of them graduated, but there was nothing wrong with stretching the truth a bit to sever the argument's progression. "Anyway, are you going to come in? I cannot imagine the floor outside would be very comfortable, no matter how determined you are to avoid the gorgeousness that is moi."

"Come off it. I'll come in, but don't even begin to think this means anything." Arthur grumbled, practically shoving Francis aside to get in and begin his search for the kettle.

"In France we say merci when somebody has done them a kindness, do you not have that here?" Despite the situation, he smiled, shutting the door behind the brit.

"Yes, we do, but we don't tend to use it for insufferable bastards, in case you haven't already assumed." He opened every wooden drawer he came across in the small corner acting as a kitchen, finding nothing but spices he hadn't even heard of before and pretentiously named ingredients for a plethora of French dishes. The closest thing that frog had to caffeine was an espresso machine.

"So much for the etiquette of the English." He chuckled. "Back in France, even the gang members were more gentlemanly than the best of you."

"Well, I'm terribly sorry if you were expecting everyone to prance around in full suits and bowler hats, but reality isn't so kind."

"What about you? Who wears a dress suit to university, cher?" Francis sauntered over and sat upon the counter so that he was positioned beside the brit. "Anyone else would think that you are a secret agent sent to complain about everything."

"On top of that being the worst Bond film idea on the planet, one would also have to be an idiot to reach that conclusion in the first place. Perhaps you could make friends with the American across the hall, since you both seem to be unequivocal halfwits."

"If words could slay, you would be a serial killer, you know that?" Much to Arthur's chagrin, Francis leant over to ruffle his hair, though near the end it seemed more like he was trying to style it. The Briton ducked before he could finish whatever it was he was doing.

"Yes, this so happens to be one of those days that I regret they can't." He pinched the bridge of his nose.

_How on earth was this going to work?_

* * *

**Plot twist! The fluff only gets stronger from here. It will consume your life as it has done with mine.**


	5. Settling in

Chapter 5

_Settling in_

* * *

Moving to a new place had never been that all easy for Arthur, the dramatic alteration to his lifestyle sent his timetable all over the place more often than not. Now, however, his timetable seemed to have been plucked from his hands, held out of reach teasingly, then ripping to shreds before his very eyes. He supposed he should be thankful that he wasn't late, though the manner in which he was woken erased any chance of showing it. Instead of the usual, continuous beeps of his small travel clock (which had apparently broken 2 days ago, and was blamed entirely for his failure of a first day), he was stirred by a pinch to his nose. Brilliant. He had hoped the events of the previous day were figments of his imagination. His eyelids opened groggily.

Now, he wasn't sure what the norm for waking up was here, but he was more than certain that it did not entail a Frenchman leaning over him, too close for comfort. Arthur let out a particularly girlish shriek from shock, arms jerking about in some kind of flawed karate stance. He looked more like the human swastika than somebody ready to jump into action. "Christ! A little warning next time, if you even understand the sodding concept!"

Francis wanted to take him seriously, he really did, but that grew exceedingly difficult to manage given the sheer spectacle of the Briton. He was a complete mess, nothing like the 'gentleman' he'd had the (not so great) pleasure of accompanying the other day. Cropped blonde hair shot out every which way, stuck with a significant amount of grease (not the stylish kind, that admittedly irritated him), and his tie had somehow managed to wander up and entangle itself in that wild mop. It was almost a shame that Francis had caved to let him sleep on the sofa; Arthur really did look cute when he slept. Also, as if to completely ruin the moment, he had chosen to remain fully clothed in his attire from yesterday. "You know, you are the one who slept in, I do not see why I should be the one getting yelled at… No rest for the beautiful, oui?" He winked, cerulean eyes tracing that irked visage.

Was that…?

It was.

A line of drool, almost unnoticeable at first, but definitely there. Too good to miss. He swiped his thumb across it, bringing out first an exclamation of shock, outrage. A crimson hue graced those perfect cheeks, casting his ghostly countenance a rosy pink. Adorable.

"Do try to limit your narcissism to your so-called fan club; a grateful audience is not one you'll find here." He sprung up and adjusted his tie in the mirror. Even an idiot could see that he only had eyes for leaving at this point. Pity that a certain Frenchman did not.

"For somebody who is living the dream of every woman in the university, you do not seem to be very grateful…" Francis sighed, only now picking up that his prudish roommate intended to exit there and then. He spread his arms wide to block the door seconds before Arthur could reach for it.

"Am I to reach the conclusion that you intend for me to be late? Step aside, frog." He grumbled, frowning to the extreme as each grab for the handle was swatted away.

"Cher, you have not eaten! It is no wonder that you are so grumpy all of the time if you are not aware of the importance of breakfast!"

Had he heard that correctly? Was he actually being lectured, by a Frenchman, no less? "Drop the concerned mother act. In France they may be obsessed with the dietary code, but here, few give a toss, least of all I."

"You poor underprivileged boy… Go back, I will get you something."

"This is bloody ridiculous."

"Maybe so, but I will not move until you do it."

Pondering whether to simply shove Francis aside, the self-proclaimed gentleman paused before giving a resigned look; _'I'll do it, but I won't ruddy well enjoy it,' _before begrudgingly taking a seat upon a ridiculously modern-looking plastic stool. It looked more like one of those blobs falsely entitled 'modern art' instead of anything even slightly resembling a chair.

Only now, whilst the Frenchman set to work upon the counter like a tentative housewife, did Arthur have the time to actually look around the place. (The previous night he had wanted to put the entire episode behind him as soon as possible, therefore jamming the television on for the remainder of the evening and refusing to switch over to Francis' sappy love dramas despite his many pleas. Despite seeming like a practical decision at the time, he hadn't exactly received the grand tour of his new home as a result.)

To his left towered a mountainous bookcase, which, despite its almost grand appearance, was riddled with a mixture of erotic novels and fashion magazines. That ruled out the possibility of finding any decent literature, a surprisingly greater burden than having to move in with the frog in the first place.

Aside from the corner acting as a kitchen and the exit, he was left with the three other rooms available: the bathroom, Francis' room (which he had suggested Arthur sleep in, only to be awarded with the second punch to his gut during that day), and the spare room, which was still being emptied of god-knows-what. Judging by what he had seen, he couldn't say that he was all that keen on finding out.

"Bon appétit!" Snapping Arthur out of his irritable search, the familiar clink of a plate was brought down under his nose and onto the glass surface of the table. There, dominating the dish, sat a steaming croissant, and besides it, a small espresso. The former succeeded in captivating the attention of his nostrils, drawing an intense rumbling from his gut in the process (he wasn't even aware of his hunger until now), the latter, a dreadful glare.

This, bringing about an amused chuckle from Francis, at least helped to break the contemptuous atmosphere. "I was right, was I not? You really are determined to be a stereotype…" With a shake of his head, he claimed the despised beverage for himself and plopped (lazily but elegantly) onto the seat opposite.

"Well, if we must pry into personal faults, then you seem to be set on aggravating me. Or is this just another quirk of the French?"

"You may never know with us, non? It is another trait your kind has picked up from mine, from what I have seen during my time here."

He took a break from consuming the meal halfway through, attempting to put out an indifferent vibe. He failed from the get-go. "Avoid such comparisons in the future, if you would. I shouldn't think that you would particularly enjoy being throttled."

"Such harsh words, especially since I went to the trouble of preparing you a meal… You could at least allow yourself to express how sumptuous it is instead of putting on that stuffy front of yours."

And with that, the Briton practically choked upon his last mouthful of breakfast. It seems his avoidance of inhaling the meal got him nowhere. "What?" Tone weak, he hurriedly dabbed at the crumbs spilt down his chin. How embarrassing…

"You heard me, did you not?" He took the Englishman's plate to put in the dishwasher. "I must say, I was not expecting your hearing to be as bad as your memory…"

That was it. He'd be damned if he didn't retort to that one, in fact, he was just forming the words at that very moment, that is, until his eyes fell upon the small clock (a wire Eiffel Tower with a clock face inside of it; why was he not surprised?). _11:53. _

Using the most energy the Frenchman had ever witnessed from the typically reluctant fellow, he scrambled to his feet, grabbed hold of his briefcase beside the door (he would have to talk to Arthur about that, what a terrible fashion sense…), and made the noise of a hundred elephants just by exiting.

That had been… odd. Why was he in such a hurry? It was not as though they were late. Were they? Then, just as Arthur had done before him, he glanced to the clock. And he freaked out.

* * *

**How was that for a first morning? ^w^ Fair to say the attraction is fairly one-sided... For now. *evil cackling* **


	6. School run

Chapter 6

_School run _

* * *

"This is all _your _fault, wanker!" The two hurried up to the grounds, both out of breath, both on the verge of collapse, and both entirely blaming the other.

"What is my fault? Treating you to a delicious meal? At least one of us has to have a heart, you know!"

"And look where that act of 'justice' got us! If being heartless means being on time, so ruddy well be it, I say!"

"Calm yourself, cher! If we make it in ten minutes from now, there is still a chance to be fashionably late!" Even so, he put in the extra bit of effort to be dashing beside the Briton instead of lagging behind.

"Do you honestly think that matters at this time? _I'm _arriving at the start of the lecture even if it kills me, as _I_, unlike _you_, have a reputation to uphold!"

"For what, being the biggest loser in history? Don't make me laugh!"

Avidly flinging insults at one another, they stormed across the busy streets. They all but shoved past everyone in sight, providing little more of a consolation than the occasional _mind if I pop through?_ Or, in both of their cases, continuous apologies until the victim no longer cared enough to remain furious (Francis had even taken two minutes out of the great rush to sweet-talk a young woman he had bumped into; the only way the conversation could finally meet its end was when Arthur dragged him away by the scruff of his neck).

This tedious cycle continued: barge into someone, apologise, bicker, repeat; that is, until they spotted a familiar pair not too far up ahead. Alfred and Kiku. This was probably the most confusing thing about this morning to Arthur, well, after the drool incident. Not Alfred, no, he was more than used to seeing _him _arriving late since sixth form, but why was Kiku alongside him? He seemed like a decent student, definitely not the sort to sleep in.

"Bonjour, mes amis!" Before Arthur could get any farther with his thought cycle, there was Francis, grinning like a highwayman and waving. Flinching at the overall brashness boldly exhibited, it took a great portion of Arthur's self-restraint not to give him a well-deserved punch on the shoulder. Fortunately enough for him, one of his verbal attacks could provide the same amount of damage.

"Oh, do raise your voice a tad higher, I don't think the Australians quite caught that."

"I am just being polite to our neighbours, cher, you do not have to be so—"

"Ahoy there, dudes! Man, do you guys argue like an old married couple or what? I don't even need an alarm anymore as long as you bros stick around!"

"Well, if you will keep an ear out at all times, then you have to be prepared for—"

"Oui! And I could sense poor Honda's discomfort from my extravagant boudoir!" He lavished his accent even more than usual, almost completely eliminating the 'H' from Honda.

"It's not as extravagant as it is pompous. If you really want to claim dragging rights then you should start by purchasing some literature that does not involve either copulation or fluffed-up prats on a catwalk."

"Maybe if you actually had a sense of style you would be in a position to criticise my own," Francis sneered, "as it is your tacky clothes are a prime example of how that would never occur even if you had all of the time in the world."

"Dudes! You're totally doing it again." In the middle of grabbing each other's collars to resume the typical row, both Francis and, surprisingly, Arthur acknowledged the source of the comment. As much as they would have loved to continue backbiting, neither wanted to prove an American right. "Anyway, what's with the running? You're gonna be tardy anyway, so what's the big idea?"

"Oh, I'll tell you what exactly the _big deal_ is, Jones." Arthur had now found a new subject to target his contempt upon. "How on earth do you imagine you will find any sort of occupation whilst you remain incapable of simply arriving on time?"

"Speak for yourself, man." Alfred belted out a large dose of laughter, drawing a suitably irked scowl from the Briton.

"Well then." His tone was calm. Frighteningly calm. "I'll just have to prove you wrong, won't I?"

"Save it, brah, you're probs gonna pass out the next step you take."

Seething, he remained silent as he instead opted to speed walk away from the obnoxious scene (which was surprisingly quicker than his previous attempt at running). He made sure to whack into the American's shoulder for good measure on his way past.

It took Francis just a second longer to process exactly what just happened. Even _he_ hasn't seen the 'gentleman' this angry, and he'd had more than enough glares and biting remarks over the course of twenty-four hours to last him a lifetime. "Wait, cher!" And with that, he stumbled after Arthur, wincing at the lack of elegance his current gait possessed. For a second, he could have sworn that the blond had lowered his speed just for him.

He didn't think he would ever really understand what was going through the minds of the English.

"What happened to being fashionably late?" Well, at least _now_ he seemed to be back to normal, albeit a bit too smug.

"Getting told off by that unstylish potato has become a habit for us, non? What would be the fun in only one of us being called into his dusty little shoebox of an office?" Francis gladly returned every ounce of self-superiority previously shot toward him, his tone betrayed that much.

"Terribly sorry to disappoint you, but I intend not to end up back there for a jolly good while, or at least as long as I can postpone it."

"Oh? I thought that you had a reputation to uphold, _007? _Why so lax? Do not tell me that somebody has pulled the stick from your butt like the sword in the stone." Well, even he himself hadn't thought of it like that, and therefore snorted at the vivid mental imagery.

"As dandy as that must sound for you, I will have to disagree entirely. I still retain a reputation, just as I retain my morals: the main principles that may just so happen to be why I would never stoop to agree with somebody of your stature."

"Who is it that you are maintaining your reputation to impress? The walking toadstool?"

"As if. That man is almost as obnoxious as you are, which, if you have learnt anything from this experience as a whole, is saying something."

Francis simply smiled, though not by means of sarcasm, or anything of the sort for that matter. Suffice to say, he had actually grown rather…accustomed? No, that wasn't the word, it was more like he had grown rather _fond _of the constant backchat.

But then again, a reply wasn't exactly necessary, as before either really registered it, they had finally reached the door. And that could only mean one thing. The low-pitched throat-clearing wasn't from a welcome party.

"Ah, boys. Just in the nick of time; congratulations on your half-arsed attempt at a 'five minutes to spare' arrival."

That voice.

That _infuriatingly _dismissive voice.

In sync, the duo turned to stare right in the face of all that was conniving in the universe. The man Francis had oh-so-cleverly branded _the walking toadstool._

"Now, as I'm sure you are both aware…" He cast a glare to Arthur, who returned it with an uneasy grimace. "This university is a prestigious one, we do not accept tardiness to lectures. Lack of will to show up means a lack of will to participate, _Mr Kirkland_, and those who do not participate have no reason to be here. Your education is no longer mandatory." Francis didn't know how that man did it; he didn't even flinch as Arthur's gaze turned venomous. There was only one thing he couldn't wrap his head around: why wasn't the blame spread equally? As much as he dreaded the man's verbal abuse, he wasn't all that keen on standing back to let Arthur take all the blame for something that equally been his own fault.

"However…" The vile man paced like a baboon in a cage. "As much as I would _love _to be rid of you two before you undertake any more antics, you were not late. Yet. Though, I do believe you'd find it interesting to note that I couldn't help but overhear your quaint conversation. And we do not, under any circumstances, tolerate such words either spoken or implied towards a member of staff. My office at lunchtime. The both of you."

At that precise moment, their hearts sunk low in their chests, probably hitting the ground with an audible thump if the bell didn't sound to cover up the noise.

"Ah. Off you pop, gentleman." Those words were all they needed to hear before they practically clawed for the handle. They needed to put as much space between themselves and that unequivocal wanker as possible, perhaps another dimension.

Heading toward other sides of the building, the two nodded, and parted for the first time that day.

* * *

**Is it bad that I really hate that teacher? I know he came from my mind and is technically my brain baby, but aCK. - At least he makes for good fodder to vent their many hormones, right? **


	7. Red string of fate

Chapter 7

_Red string of fate_

* * *

"So, like, there's this old Japanese—"

"_Chinese_, ya dummy."

"Yeah, whatever, anyway, there's this old legend thing that an invisible red string connects two people who're totally fated to date." An alarmingly florescent teen spoke, playing with a piece of red yarn from her sleeve. "Y'think it's true?"

"Legends are but legends to begin with for a reason, ma chérie…" Francis replied evenly, to which, as usual, the crowd swooned.

A lot had changed in the past few months, well, aside from the variation of seasons and all of that. The morning routine of barely making it in time, not to mention the countless visits to that moron's office remained the same, something that the day could not begin without. Another thing was, miraculously, he had finally cleared out the spare room for Arthur (he would be lying if he said he didn't miss the times when he could easily watch the blond snooze, especially since he was pretty sure that it was the only time when the reserved man would smile), but the most prominent development out of these months? That the fangirls had begun to follow Francis home. That meant a lot less time to spend pestering Arthur.

"You okay, hun? You look a little pale… Has that fogey Arthur given you his cold?" At that point, if they hadn't been swarming over him before, they were now. He could barely hear himself think over the cries of _oh my god _and _I'll make you some soup, 'kay?_

"Non, not at all! There is no reason to fuss over this gorgeousness!" That was his and Arthur's excuse. The latter had grown sick of the seemingly omnipotent crowds that bothered him on a daily basis about backing off from 'their man', so, to prevent him from exploding into a temper, he would shut himself away in his room and do something mind-numbingly boring, such as reading gothic literature (or _studying, _of all things). "Now, excusez-moi, madames, but I must use the restroom…"

"Aww… That's like the third time this hour!" Came a collective groan.

"I can escort you, if you'd like…" A brunette spoke up, one of the girls who imagined that fluttering your eyelashes after saying anything at all instantly made it seductive.

"Je serai bien! Merci for the offer, though." Honestly, who found that sort of thing acceptable for a pickup line? He had been deploying them long enough to know that there was a science to it. Escorting someone to the loo was the sort of job a mother of a toddler might have to do, not somebody trying to sweep the target off their feet. What was she implying she'd do, anyway? Prop the toilet seat up?

At a pace that was more like running than strolling nonchalantly (unfortunately, he had picked that up from Arthur), he entered the small yard-long excuse for a corridor, turned past the bathroom (not that the girls would assume anything, he had kept them from exploring the place for a reason), and hurriedly filed into Arthur's room, earning, unsurprisingly, a disgusted stare. He had probably interrupted another hideously large reading session, judging by the book that looked as thick (and probably as heavy), as a brick sitting on his knees.

"Back so soon? I would have thought you'd be busy, what with your army of spray-tanned cultural vultures." There was another thing that had not changed – the witticisms.

"Oui…" He flopped down onto the bed in exhaustion. Arthur shuffled as far to the other side as possible. "One of them even offered to escort me to the restroom this time. I know I am magnificent, but they really are difficult to get away…"

"Hold on a tick, so you actually assume they believe you? I think you're giving them too little credit."

"Ah?" He raised a manicured eyebrow.

"Well, since they seem to have pledged their undying support to fuelling your narcissism, who's to say they aren't going to take a gander?" Arthur spat matter-of-factly, as though it were the most obvious fact in the world.

"…Mon dieu," he sighed before performing a grand slump, "I hate to say it, cher, but you're right. Does this room have a keyhole?" Blond waves flew askew, the scent of expensive shampoo entwining with the air. The Frenchman was looking around for said part of the door.

"If it had, don't you think I would be currently using it in order to lock you outside to rot? As I'm sure you're aware, that tends to be a requirement for the majority of bathrooms."

"I am not an idiot, you know…"

"No, you're right. An idiot would know to lower his voice in this situation; _your _intelligence is on par with an American's."

"There is such a thing as, how you say, _too far, _and you just went there!"

"_Quiet,_ you bloody—"

The door then creaked open. It must have looked rather suggestive, with Francis sprawled across the bed and Arthur looking positively livid. Not that it was all that bad for the former, who seemed to be enjoying every second of the Briton's stupor, but more so for the flock of teenage girls that had swarmed almost instantaneously. The majority looked utterly heartbroken, a few appeared ready to punch either one of them (though it would most likely be Arthur, due to how much they would complain about him behind his back), and one extremely odd individual shoved toward the back of the mass who was positively _beaming _at them. Even Francis had his limits. There was no way he could comfort each and every one of them. So, he simply gave a winning smile, albeit more awkwardly than usual.

Which of course was completely overlooked in favour (or lack of, thereof) of a ferocious glare – Arthur's. "Are you quite finished?" The younger blond scowled, though anyone could see that throughout the entirety of the encounter, he hadn't exactly been on the brink of anger, as he supposed he was conveying. "Some of us, unlike you illiterate Barbie-doll rehashes, have better things to do than barge into the property of others."

"It's not like we're uninvited, ass!" The leader-figure of the pack, a lanky blonde, crowed. "Francis gave us permission, like, years before you! You just got lucky, weirdo!"

Just as Arthur scowled like he was going to instigate a verbal massacre upon the pack, Francis, finally, found his voice. "Calmez-vous, oui…? I was checking up on him, is all; it wouldn't be too good if he died before paying the rent—!" He scratched the back of his neck cheerily. This, despite being met with a disapproving snort from Arthur, actually seemed to lighten the spirits of the crowd.

"That's so adorbs! You're like his handsome big brother!" An ecstasy of squealing spread through the crowd like a disease. Truth be told, Francis wasn't about to object to the title. It was rather quaint, if anything, but obviously, despite the age gap providing more than enough ground evidence for Francis' content with it, the Englishman still wasn't happy. Then again, would he ever be?

A standalone component remained concordant: he loved Arthur Kirkland in spite of it.

* * *

**So that was a time skip. I think it'd be about a month or two? Kinda early, I know, but I could go on for years just incorporating fluffy moments into the same schedule each and every day with no plot progression.**


	8. Lingering grazes

Chapter 8

_Lingering grazes_

* * *

"Dudes! _Dudes! _Come on already, get your freakin' asses up! It's like, super important!"

That, accompanied by a rapid series of strikes upon the door that seemed inches away from collapse, were what woke Arthur Kirkland at precisely 1:50am (according to the piercingly bright letters of his digital clock).

How tempting it would be to roll over, press the pillow to his ears and ignore the entire scene. In fact, it was more than tempting; it was exactly what he was going to do.

Almost as if picking up the Briton's intentions, a well-timed tap sounded from the other side of the paper-thin wall separating the two disagreeable 'roomies'. "Your turn, cher…" Came a resigned murmur not long after. Brilliant. So not only would he be dealing with an American at the crack of dawn, but he was doing so on the whim of a Frenchman. That more than warranted a tap back, though in this case it was more of a punch, and, judging by the whining that ensued as a result, he had succeeded in jolting the bed frame on the other side. Arthur supposed that he would save the rest of his indignation for the morning, which was (hopefully), the next time he would be face-to-face with the offender. That is, if he managed to keep the encounter to a minimum length and salvage some more sleep without further disruption. Now at least he had an incentive to get up, giving a big 'sod off' to Francis has always improved his mood under these circumstances. As the recipient, Francis only wished he could say the same thing.

The walls of the place were only that: paper-thin. Any old idiot could find a way around them, so why couldn't Francis? He respected the disgruntled Englishman's personal space, he really did, but right now (if he knew there would be no consequences or arguments), he desired more than anything to get to the person on the other side. Not to hit (or most likely: receive a hit _from_), bicker or even tease, but to simply…what was the word? He never could find the words to say what exactly he needed with Arthur, which was odd considering he usually had a pretty good idea with most. All Francis knew was that the feeling was somehow different. He had been in a multitude of relationships before, but none of them had ever really felt like much. With Arthur, however, he was perfectly content with just sitting beside him, and considering that was as far as he would probably be getting for the foreseeable future, he'd take it any day.

There was only one setback – he sincerely doubted any of these feelings were reciprocated. He couldn't help but sigh at the thought, but luckily, a fresh bout of arguing prevented him from dwelling upon these thoughts all that much.

"Are you Americans really so extra-terrestrial that you do not require sleep?"

"Whatever, man! Sleep is for losers! Just wait 'til I show you guys this kickass thing I wanna test to get outta revision!" The bubbly American rummaged through his pockets excessively, struggling to separate the 'vital item' from a multitude of hamburger wrappers.

"Dropping out?" It felt odd to hear criticism coming from Arthur's mouth that wasn't directed toward _him. _All the more reason for Francis to get up and investigate.

"No way, man! Ah! Here we go! Francis, get over here, like pronto!"

Fair to say, Arthur was a little stunned to see the Frenchman, and practically leapt a foot or two in the air. The urge to instigate a bear hug only grew from that point onwards.

"So, you guys, check it!" Finally, Alfred produced a completely normal world map (aside from the fact that Russia was marked with _commies _in bold red crayon), if anything, the only odd thing was why he had even brought it along in the first place. "You ever notice how crazy close Britain and France are?"

"Mon dieu…" This was the third month that France had had his beauty sleep interrupted by stupid, caffeine-fuelled questions from a jittery Alfred. It definitely wouldn't be the last.

"As fascinating as basic geography must be for the likes of _you, _I'd quite like to get a second's break from stupidity. Goodbye, and give Kiku the best of luck from me. God knows he'll need it when you're involved." One, two, three seconds of silence. Then he slammed the door in the man's face, which was unfortunately stuck open a crack by a single snoopy slipper.

"Come on, dude! Hear me out!" Apparently the pain took a while to register. "_Holy balls _that stings…"

"Can it not wait until the morning, cher? We were in the middle of splendid tranquillity…"

"Pfft, whatever, but give it a peep! Y'see this annoying scraggly little island above Europe?"

"…Britain, you mean?" A dry tone. As expected, Arthur wasn't exactly overjoyed.

"Yeah, that. And y'see that other thing below it that's, like, exactly the same?" That drew a horrified gasp from them both.

"You cheeky little twit!"

"You disrupted my beauty sleep to lump my gorgeous culture with his bland mess? We have more going for us than time-travelling phone booths, you know!"

"What, like consuming the population of my Grandmother's garden? You never were very good at telling jokes, Frenchie!"

"Who is joking? I would take escargot over those lumps of cement you call _scones _any day, lapin."

"Maybe next time I _won't _make breakfast, if you're going to be such a prize arsehole about it!"

"You won't? Merci beaucoup!" With a flourish, he embraced the younger blond with rib-crushing strength, sputtering random French terms of endearment.

"Remove yourself, you absolute prat!" Spat an unquestionably livid Arthur, shoving the Frenchman's face all the while to reject the multiple nuzzles the latter was trying to get across. "You smell like a horse's arse!"

"Uh… guys? I'm totally trying to talk here!" Stunningly, that at least aroused the attention of the two, who were now in the process of practically ripping each other's faces in half via cheek pulling. "Alright, so here's my idea! Since they're both so close together and same-ish, what's the point of studying stuff that happened to them individually? We should get Superman to superglue 'em together!"

"That may just be…" Francis began.

"…The stupidest idea I've ever heard in my entire life." Arthur concluded, who looked like he'd just had whatever remaining faith in humanity he held close smashed before his very eyes.

"S'not my fault you guys can't see how kickass it is..."

"Pray tell, why did you find this relevant in the first place?"

"Oh, that! I was wondering if you guys knew Superman's phone number!"

With that, both Arthur and then Francis made a grab for the handle, and finally managed to shut the obnoxious American out. Luckily he had moved his foot; neither of them quite knew how they'd manage if he stayed for any longer.

_But there was something they noticed about this. _

After giving a joint sigh of relief, they looked up to acknowledge that Francis' hand had found its way over to cover Arthur's, and _by god_, the wait had been worth it. He would have gone through a million of Alfred's idiotic rants to stay like that, squeezing those soft, pale digits. Unfortunately for him, fate was a cruel mistress. The regrettably surly owner of the hand yanked it away and stormed to the kitchen, but not before Francis identified a delicate blush that had smeared across those cheeks.

* * *

**Is it wrong that I was screeching whilst writing this in places? No, scratch that, the whole thing? They're kinda like a family now, with Kiku as that one relative that stays as far away from family affairs as possible to be with his cats. So close to FACE, but no cigar...**


	9. Words unspoken

Chapter 9

_Words unspoken_

* * *

That same night, Arthur could not sleep. Tea, his precious standby, was probably what had caused this, but he was too distracted with finishing his fifth cup of the hour to come to the realisation. It was stupid, really, for him to be so worked up, kept up, by thoughts of the one who was precisely adjacent to his own position, and could probably hear him as he mumbled. And why on earth did _he_ of all people have to suffer them? It was more than clear he was just toying with him; what else could it be? He was probably shagging the vast majority of the University whenever Arthur wasn't looking, though surprisingly, that wasn't the astonishing thing about this. What had truly captured the Englishman was that the thought actually _hurt_ him. His heart sunk at the very existence of what he should already know. It was concrete, it was certainly not going to go away anytime soon, so _why _was he so affected?

He rested his forehead on his knees after bringing them to his chest, mushing it against the two as though that would solve any of the problems at hand. Whoever had mentioned that time can help anything was an idiot; all it had done for Arthur was make things a whole lot worse. Even expressing emotion at all had become risky. Hell, it was a miracle he had kept up the 'get out of my face' act for this long. He was wavering, yes.

And he blamed the Frenchman entirely for it.

_This was probably nothing_, he reassured himself. He always had been a hopeless romanticist before bed. But even so… It was too much all at once. Every restricted emotion, every crudely brushed aside thought that even _hinted_ anything like this came back to haunt him; and _by god_, it was awful. He needed to say these words sooner or later, the ones that gnawed at his insides, the ones that would hound him to the ends of the earth. However, he also needed a way to express them. Not with the intention to present them, but to get them all out of his system, to have everything in front of him, and let that be the end of that. Since he sincerely doubted he had miraculously become the epitome of suave in the space of a few seconds, conventional words weren't going to cut it. Everything had to be planned, no chance of messing up, no chance of acting the fool.

He had the motivation. He had a pen and paper. But still, the former would not produce what he wanted. It simply hovered. Reality wasn't like in those hideous American romantic comedies, and Arthur could not produce a masterpiece out of thin air, especially regarding feelings he _should_ _not have_.

Nevertheless, he fought on, no longer keeping track of the amount of times he had to scratch out whole paragraphs he had been slaving over for hours, no longer caring about the sea of crumpled papers that surrounded his desk, or the fact that his eyelids felt remarkably heavy. It goes without saying that Arthur roughly deserved what came next as his head eventually planted against the oak of the table with a small _thud_.

Motivation and stationary could not save one from the inevitability of sleep.

* * *

The sun was shining, the birds were singing, but all Francis cared about at that precise moment was locating that dastardly grey hair that had been in his face upon waking. Well, that and the matter that he couldn't hear the typical sound effects from an ancient Doctor Who rerun emanating from the living room/kitchen, which could only mean one thing: Arthur had overslept.

As far as he had noticed, it was not raining fire, nor was the sun causing the combustion of humanity, which ruined his theory that the day the Englishman neglected the outline of his uniform morning would be when Armageddon came about.

End of the world or not, he couldn't help but wonder. Had he let anything slip last night? Was this Arthur's personal way of spiting him? This demanded reparation either way, so, as soon as Francis had sprung up to apologise for whatever it was that he had done, he was obviously not expecting to see the self-proclaimed gentleman face-down on his desk and surrounded by a minefield of papers. It looked like someone had set off a bomb in a library.

Picking his way through the mass, he was soon standing directly to the snoozing Englishman's right. It was funny to think that, after what had seemed like forever ago, Arthur looked exactly the same when he slept. Cheeks at their pudgiest, brow lightened in an expression that, for once, did _not _contain contempt, anyone would mistake him for an entirely different person.

There was another thing that caught his eye, however. There, underneath Arthur's left hand, was a piece of paper. Overturned, of course; whatever he had been working on, it was clearly something he wouldn't particularly fancy anyone else peeking at. He ever so casually pulled the sheet out from underneath the Briton's fingertips. It was his duty to know these sorts of things as a roommate, wasn't it? It wasn't as though he were committing any sort of punishable offence…

A thousand different options ran rampant – was it the outline for the super villain's lair that Alfred was absolutely convinced he possessed? Something for a girl at the University that could subsequently be held against him?

Francis sucked in some air, turned the sheet over…then proceeded to splutter out what little breath he had obtained.

* * *

**Apparently your feelings weren't damaged enough already. Lemme change that for you. Or they could be perfectly fine and I just react badly to Arthur being so conflicted. Probably the latter.**


	10. If love were a colour

Chapter 10

_If love were a colour_

* * *

Mid-afternoon art lectures always had been bliss for Francis Bonnefoy. A simple hour spent in front of a plain white canvas was all he needed to get through the remainder of the day in which he would be separated from Arthur, and at times, he thought of it as one of the things that kept him sane. The way the oily paints clung onto the bristles of his brush for dear life, the way each stroke brought about a thousand possibilities…what wasn't to like about such a tranquil state?

However, there was something else on the Frenchman's mind, something a lot stronger than the necessity of deciding which vibrant colour to initiate his piece with. The sheet was kept in his left breast pocket. If Arthur had noticed he had taken it, he certainly hadn't said anything. He was in possession of a completely average sheet of paper, a flimsy, delicate thing. But to Francis, it was so much more than that. Its contents were, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen the English language used for, and he wouldn't give it up for the world.

More than once during the hour he had raised his hand to cover it, feeling the steady pulse of his heartbeat underneath it. Just to know it was there. Just to know that it was entirely real, no matter how many times he had pinched himself to gain the confirmation in the first place. Arthur Kirkland loved him back. That was all that mattered. That no matter how cold or distant he was, Francis would always have these words. He had his proof, and Arthur had more than enough himself to realise it was returned.

They could make it work. The imperfections were what would keep it going, what would keep them from growing tired of each other. Ever since the Briton's arrival in his dormitory, it had been one big rollercoaster, they could both agree on that.

And if this were any other day, the Frenchman would scold himself for getting too ahead of himself, for fantasising when it was a bad call, but something had just…clicked since then. None of this felt unreasonable. It was as though the outcome he desired was so close, he could simply reach out at this very moment and embrace it. And lord knows he wouldn't let go.

At some point, without his knowing it, Francis had already begun to sketch, the thin lead of his pencil making a delicate _scratch _upon the rough surface. His movements were so calm, so perfectionist, that he had to block out each individual murmur around him to get each line done to standard. If someone were to set off a bomb under his nose, he wouldn't even flinch. He was too focused on his work, too focused on making everything _just so_ in case he somehow offended the piece, even though it was currently without form. It didn't even cross his mind that he may be taking this a bit too seriously, even if it _was_ an assessed piece of work.

Francis' mind was slipping away from him, however. Each stroke brought up a select word from the sheet, the sheet that he oh so desperately wanted to re-read again and again until the words were nothing more than squiggles on a page, the sheet that was so close yet so far at the same time. He wasn't quite sure how or when he did it, but he made it through the short period of time, positioned in front of a rather perplexing bit of art. Had he done this? It _was _his canvas, but it had all seemed so…distant for a while.

He traced his index finger along the narrow outline, almost in awe. He had never seen anything like this, let alone from his own hand. In the centre of the canvas, the very nexus, was a rough (almost hexagonal by terms of which the lines connected) oval-shaped form, but it wasn't the framework that impressed him the most. The mass of colours were what truly grasped his attention, the deep greens, the slivers of light seeping across it, and the small flickers of amber surrounding a second, smaller black circle within it.

It took the Frenchman a while to process what it truly was. An eye. _Arthur's _eye. He lowered his hand; all of a sudden it felt rather out of place for him to attempt to touch it, let alone stare into it in disbelief for the next ten minutes and into his break.

Without even processing it, he had managed to replicate such a flawless spectacle. Without even processing it, he had managed to manifest all of his feelings towards Arthur into something anyone could experience by simply looking at the work. And without even processing it, he was smiling.

* * *

**Now, originally, I hadn't planned to put this chapter in at all. But then again, what's the harm in concocting 800+ words of Fransu's feelings? ^w^ Oh, and the lack of Iggy's perspective isn't by accident, it's not like I forgot. I'm doing one of those weird "it's a mystery to Francis so it's a mystery for the reader" things. Fourth wall? What fourth wall?**


	11. Snowdrops

Chapter 11

_Snowdrops_

* * *

The forests of England. Cold, damp, but remarkably not as disappointing as they sounded from an outline. The biting breezes of winter played dominant throughout the air, dyeing the tips of their ears a dark pink. Were they utterly freezing? Yes. Did their toes feel like they had dropped off a while ago down the path? Yes. The remarkable thing? Francis was too occupied with staring toward the back of Arthur's cropped hair to particularly mind.

He was lucky to have been able to drag Arthur outside, he knew that much. The Briton never went outside, especially not on Boxing Day (he'd found that out during the great struggle of departure).

"What on earth possessed me to leave?" He piped up, huffing a small billow of smoke from a cigarette (Francis had persuaded him to cut back considerably, so this was probably to spite him). "If I'd wanted to wade through dog waste I would have taken up Jones' offer to inhabit McDonald's."

In spite of himself, Francis sniggered lightly. "It was either now or never, cher, and I know you would have gone for the second unless I dragged you out of your dingy sulking corner."

"I was not _sulking, _frog, I was _revising_. I'm aware the concept must be somewhat alien to you."

"Perhaps… Although, it's nice you would be so concerned about that; maybe you want me in your room after all?"

Arthur barked out a mocking laugh. "Unless you intend to leap out of its window post-haste, I'll have to decline."

"It was worth a try, oui?"

"Hm."

And he just had to make it awkward again. The worst thing about having his lines swatted down was having them completely diminished, along with whatever fantasies he formerly held. Luckily, things actually seemed to take a turn for the best around the same time Francis had offered that they go to somewhere _warm _this time. It was quite frankly remarkable what wonders indoor heating did for the Briton's attitude, perhaps Francis ought to parade about as a generator to win his affection.

But, then again, he started suspecting things. He always did, but five minutes had to be a brand new record. "My sincerest gratitude for the watery tea, but are you going to tell me why on earth you've been behaving so freakishly _normal _or not? Well, as normal as someone of your status can be." Not even attempting to shoot a generic glare, he instead returned to the cup, which he was sipping from with a surprising amount of vigour for a man who presumably hated everything to do with it.

"Have you ever heard yourself complain? I would rather this than to be out in the cold, so you don't have to act as though I have poisoned that hideous flavoured water."

He spared a wary glance to the liquid. Just in case. "As if I would ever be so dense as to trust you for a second." A half-hearted murmur. There was something that seemed…off. So, without a moment's hesitation, Francis moved his hand across the table to lightly brush Arthur's own, an attempt at reassurance.

"Cher?" He tilted his head to the side. Arthur still refused to meet his gaze.

"It's nothing." Again, that absent murmuring, like he wasn't quite there. "It's merely a cold coming on from the weather. Which I blame you for entirely." Francis could have gone without that addition, but wasn't willing to let it show.

"Naturellement!" He felt a broad grin surface, though he couldn't quite sense his features enough to tell (to his utter shock, it was reciprocated in part).

"You'd best hurry up and finish, if we're supposed to make it back in time for your silly love drama." Why had he remembered that? Hadn't he previously protested over how 'god-awful' it was? Not that Francis was about to complain…

"Ah, oui!" After much rummaging around in his ridiculously puffy coat (one of Arthur's that he had 'borrowed' for a joke; however he hadn't counted on the Briton's fashion sense being _that _terrible), he produced a cheque book. Yes, for a simple pair of beverages. The amount of money he ended up spending before payday on his friends was getting ridiculous, judging by the roll of Arthur's eyes.

"Spare me." He grumbled, a familiar, irritated gleam in his eyes before he practically slammed a five pound note upon the table, much to the chagrin of the waitress. The Frenchman wasn't sure if he should be grateful for this restoration of normalcy. "Consider this a lesson on keeping it in your trousers. Perhaps one day you'll be capable of paying by yourself."

He was about to provide an argument that it hadn't left those confines in the first place since he had moved in (surely a coincidence), then move onto a biting sexual remark, but, as usual, he was interrupted by a sudden action. This time: the legs of Arthur's chair screeching horribly against the floor.

So, instead, he made a different approach. He padded close behind Arthur once they had exited, scraped the thin film of frost from the café's windowsill, then, with the utmost of care, shoved the small newly-formed lump down the Englishman's back.

"Bloody—! You complete and utter sod!" Arthur was whacking his back in vain, as though it would help to get the snow out somehow, but only succeeded in spreading it. There was no way he was going to allow the Frenchman to get away with _that_. "Have a taste of your own damned medicine!" With that, he scraped up a portion of frost himself, much larger than the one he had actually been assaulted with, and launched it straight toward the Frenchman's face.

"My gorgeous hair!" Came a shocked cry; Francis was now trying to separate slush from his locks, and failing miserably. It didn't stop there. After each second, yet another ball would be thrown, putting his hair in an even worse state. Arthur, however, seemed to find this hilarious. Francis had now made it his life goal to return the mistreatment.

Artillery was simple enough to gather, it took no time at all for them to be evenly matched. Odd, the duo had actually seemed to forget that they were in the middle of a street full of onlookers; the majority being housewives who were giggling at the odd sight. To them, it was a hilarious titbit to gossip about with their neighbours, to the two rather immature gentlemen, however, it was war.

So, with a surprising air of seriousness (parted only by the occasional roaring burst of laughter), they continued the squabble, the bitter cold sinking its claws into their flesh with each flurry of snow sent toward the other. If it weren't for Arthur hiding a multitude of stones (and lord knows what else) inside the balls, perhaps Francis wouldn't have required an arm around him for support when all was said and done. The former was perfectly sure he hadn't thrown them all that hard, though wasn't about to pipe up, save to say: "I knew the French were spineless failures, but this is quite frankly on a whole new level. How is it possible for one to be this crippled after a meagre dose of fortified slush?"

"Your words cut into me, cher… Mon dieu, my beautiful face is going to get bruises all over…" Francis whined in mock-exasperation, positively clutching onto the Briton's side. One would have to be blind to say that this went unnoticed.

"Don't be so dramatic. You shouldn't have started it in the first place if you're too incompetent to follow through." Arthur had always quite fancied the cold. In this case, it helped to obscure whatever blush was on his face with the excuse that it was absolutely bloody freezing.

"The sympathy of the English… How would I live without it?" He quirked a half smile.

"I see you've managed to pick up sarcasm. Perhaps in a few decades you'll gain the ability to behave like a respectable human being as an alternate to a playboy reject."

Luckily, before the argument could get any farther, a pair of boots thudded into the snow behind before a well-placed 'glomp' was issued upon the two, who were almost knocked off their feet altogether.

"Sup, yah ho-ho-homos?" An energetic cry came from behind. Well, there went all chance of thanking this 'mysterious stranger' for causing Arthur to increase his hold (and spluttering like nobody's business in that cute way that only _he _could).

"You _what? _As if you're in any place to talk!"

"Dude, you guys were freakin' cuddling! I mean, I've heard a crap-ton of rumours, but there's no way I thought they were right!" That was a sure-fire way to aggravate the Briton: mention the many strands of gossip circulating around him and Francis.

"We most certainly were not! I simply wished to arrive back at the dormitory before anyone such as _yourself _arrived, if you must pry."

"Sure, whatever. You may as well've been givin' the guy a piggyback!" Now _that _actually sounded quite fun. Francis turned back expectantly to Arthur, and was appointed the next victim of his death glare.

"Forget it; this is precisely why I refuse to leave my accommodation. Have fun dragging poor Kiku around every burger joint in Britain." Despite himself (and all their expectations), he all but dragged himself, and Francis as a given, off and onward down the path (ignoring Alfred's cries of _Hold up!_ all the while).

It really had been a while since Francis had last seen him this angry, lips taut and eyes burning ferociously. But lord, had he missed it (at least, when it wasn't him who was on the receiving end). There was something about the facial expression that just seemed so…compassionate. Not in the loving sense, of course, but as of late any emotion aside from indifference coupled with biting sarcasm had become rare. Even that had seemed forced. It was only a matter of time before they were forced back to generic lectures again, so why was he so distant? He would have to ask about that later, when he had regained what little warmth he lost to the snowball fight. Speaking of that, he still wasn't quite sure that all the snow had melted from its place down his clothes. He rummaged around with his free hand.

Instead of what he had expected (slush, slush and even more slush), his digits curled around something leafy. Grass, perhaps? He withdrew his hand. There, cupped between his index and middle finger, lay a small flower bud. A snowdrop. Had this been on purpose? Even if not, it was a sweet gesture all the same, too sweet to miss.

Perhaps if things had remained the same way, he would have ignored it, simply dismissed it as something to bring up in arguments where the Englishman would insist that he truly hated Francis' guts. However, what he saw next eliminated all possibility of that. In the hand that was clasped around Francis' forearm, almost unnoticeable, stuck out a small, viridescent stem, identical to the one he had found on his own person. Francis nudged Arthur lightly, holding up the flower with an inflated sense of pride. He had won. There was no way to get out of this one, and judging by Arthur's expression, he had reached the same conclusion.

But, as always, his victory was short-lived; if there was one thing Arthur knew how to do, it was to cover his tracks. It was funny, really, how well Francis knew him in the space of four months or so.

"Congratulations on locating a flower. Perhaps now your intellect has upgraded from an American's to a toddler's." He grumbled, increasing his pace monumentally. Now one was speed walking, and the other was taking ridiculously separated strides in a vain attempt to catch up.

"Cher, wait!" Miracle of all miracles, the Briton paused.

"What? If you think it holds any significance, then I take back my earlier statement." The remark had been biting, that much was correct, though he had not been enquiring about that. Instead, without another word, he gestured to the trees above them. There, upon the highest canopy of branches, lay a small bundle of mistletoe, intruding on the skyline as though it had been crassly slapped there by whatever god saw Francis' fantasies as some sort of divine blueprint to be exacted.

"No. I can tell what you're going to say, frog, and there's your response. It's long past Christmas."

"One for the new year, s'il vous plait?" His tone was hopeful, though not expecting much. Even so, despite the odds, he could at least put up a good fight.

"You're lucky enough to be graced with my company in the first place, wanker. Now tone the perversion down a notch and go." 'Graced with his company'? Hadn't Francis said something along those lines earlier? At least he wasn't the _only _one who had been infected with a trait or two from the other. Although, unfortunately, there was also another one he exhibited. Despite being utterly perfect at masking his emotions upon their first meeting, that hard exterior had been practically ripped from his very being. What Francis saw now was what Arthur had been hiding since as early as their first glance, in actuality. He _did _want it. He _did _want him. It was as if all of those words he had ready earlier, each adorably uncertain phrase, completely comprised his visage. What had seemed to be a fool's desire earlier to him, a simple false hope, was now very close to reality. But now, after countless dreams of what he would say, all those hours spent pondering how to say it, he managed to convey it all simply through that _outrageously _adorable expression of unease, uncertainty, and unknowingness as to whether or not the Frenchman would make a move. Which was just as well, really, as in place of all the words he had prepared, every by-the-book method of breaking it, only static remained. His mind was an utter mess, thoughts buzzing around, fleeting ideas that disappeared at the very touch before he had a chance to analyse them in depth. He was a wreck who was barely restraining himself, who needed to be let free. So that was what Francis did.

Taking his hands and planting a delicate kiss to those ripe lips, he set Arthur's yearnings free. With very gentle nip to the Englishman's bottom lip, every mingling breath they shared, Arthur came one step closer to feeling as though he may just melt away in the Frenchman's arms, if left to his own devices. Time seemed to have come to a stop altogether, as if there was no world outside of this moment, these feelings, and the one thought that kept circulating throughout the Briton's mind: _that he was no longer alone. _As ridiculous as it sounded, and there was some part of his mind that was screaming at him for thinking this way, it just felt so natural. What had previously seemed alien now felt roughly…normal. Not at all to undermine the experience, lord knows it was more than he was expecting and then some, but to realise that, at some level, he had come to the realisation that it was inevitable. No matter how he played it, whether he fought against it or was game from the get-go, this moment of overwhelming passion would remain. It was almost a shame on the Frenchman's part when they finally had to part, but more than worth it to see Arthur's face, flushed a deep scarlet. He looked so childlike, somehow, a more than welcome change from his usually uptight self.

"Should we go, cher?" He gazed into those deep, lush pools of olive, sweeping a few stray hairs that were obscuring his view.

"In theory, yes… That is, if you're still dead set on catching that ridiculous show." Any reciprocal gestures? None at all. Arthur tore the look apart by shooting a glance to the side instead. Well, what had Francis expected? Arthur was still Arthur, and he wouldn't change that for the world. Nodding, the Frenchman held a single one of Arthur's hands down the path, neither shied away. During their retreat inside, they spoke, they shared anecdotes, and so much more about themselves. The cold had suddenly become a lot easier to tolerate.

* * *

**WE MADE IT GUYS. In case you missed it, this chapter comes with free cheese. Pretty much enough to solve world hunger. I apologise for that. X'D**


	12. Unification

Chapter 12

_Unification_

* * *

The thick, musty air of the dormitory was welcome upon their skin as they finally tumbled through the door, practically collapsing against it with relief. They panted, exchanged weary smiles, but were surprisingly content. The evening was slow, spent in the frankly embarrassing jumpers that had been granted by relatives (the one that Francis had received was anonymous, but he would recognise that terrible sense of style anywhere). The hours ticked by lazily, broken only by half-hearted mocking remarks about Francis' show of choice: Autumn Salon (some terrible flick about a couple that met in the same salon repeatedly, which, unsurprisingly, was set in autumn), but were silenced by the sweetest of gestures; squeezes of hands, light pecks to the Englishman's nose, little moments that seemed to make everything seem just that much warmer, closer.

The seasons dragged past, biting winter to vibrant spring, spring to summer (along with a new addition to their family: a thick-furred Persian cat that Arthur was perfectly sure was looking for the first opportunity to murder him), then back to the beginning, where it had all started. Those days of roses and autumn leaves.

* * *

**The sexual tension gods have been satisfied! Big thanks to everyone who stuck through to the end of this fic! It was my first shot at it, after all, so I'd hope it's up to standard. So, what next? I was thinking of possibly a side-story focusing on things down Alfred &amp; Kiku's side of the corridor? Or perhaps another entirely new setting? Stay posted!**


End file.
